


Spiderweb

by silkinsilence



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, More suggestive than PWP I'm afraid, Power Dynamics, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkinsilence/pseuds/silkinsilence
Summary: ‍‡ It's important to keep one's weapon well-maintained.‍
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Spiderweb

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

When she hears the sliding of the door to the austere cell she occupies in this cesspit, she cannot help her breath from coming a little faster. Her languid pulse quickens. She arches her back against the shower wall and lets her legs slip apart.

It only takes a handful of strides for her lanky visitor to cross into the tiny bathroom. Moira O’Deorain raises an eyebrow to see her patient (her subject) as she is, naked under the streaming water and gazing at her with an invitation in her eyes.

“You said you needed help.”

“Yes,” the Widowmaker says. “I am filthy.”

Moira’s lips twitch upward even as she raises an eyebrow.

“I have work to do,” she says, like she isn’t devouring the Widowmaker with her eyes, like restraint has ever been her strong suit.

“I am your work.”

How sickening her desires are, the Widowmaker thinks, as she steadies herself against the wall with one hand and idly explores herself with the other. That she even has the language to ask is a testament to how pathetic she is. Gérard and Sombra and Moira and Moira—they have molded her into this, whatever she is.

No, she corrects herself. She has become it for each of them. She is the one spreading her legs, and they are the ones filling the space in between. The spider spins the web, and her prey comes.

It is, of course, wishful thinking to imagine any of them as prey.

Moira divests herself of lab coat and button-down and nothing else before joining her. The shower is so small that she doesn’t bother even climbing in, just opening the door and leaning into the spray. She grips the Widowmaker’s wrist hard in one hand, interrupting her petting between her legs.

“And where is your filth?” she asks, voice low and eyes hungry.

“Can’t you see it?” the Widowmaker murmurs. When Moira’s grip slackens, she brings the doctor’s hand up to cup her own breast.

Moira smiles. Her finger ghosts over the flesh, a stroke on her nipple that sends a spark through the Widowmaker.

“How shall I clean you? With my hands?”

Her nail traces a teasing circle around her nipple. It is more torturous than her usual roughness, which she doubtless knows. The Widowmaker does not appreciate gentleness.

“With my mouth?” Her breath washes against the Widowmaker’s ear, her lips barely a centimeter away. Her other hand grips her hip, much less gentle than its counterpart. The Widowmaker spreads her thighs further and imagines a length slamming home into her. She, who is always empty, wishes crudely only to be full.

“All of you, Doctor, Minister,” the Widowmaker purrs, wrapping her arm around Moira’s shoulders where the shower has soaked her white undershirt. “All of you and all of me.”

“Greed is not a virtue, Lacroix.”

The old name stings, as it always does. The Widowmaker digs her nails in, though her claws can’t compare to Moira’s.

“Then punish me for it,” she says impudently.

Moira offers a short sound, a laugh or a scoff.

“Very well,” she says, and as she kisses the Widowmaker her nails trail along the series of scars she left during the last surgery, and the one before, and all the ones before that.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated!


End file.
